Give a Cry out for Liberty
by lyraspace
Summary: The residents of Foster's receive a grim reminder that living there makes them the lucky ones. For a certain Few, enough is enough. (A series of vignettes about tragedy, of revolution, and what it means to be an Imaginary Friend.)
1. Part One

**_Beep. Beep. Beep._**

Frankie Foster could only sit and wonder how such a perfect autumn afternoon could have gone south so quickly.

She was used to the chaos that helping run a place like Foster's brought, (and even that was becoming increasingly easier as everyone was finally getting settled into the new routine of the Fair Chore Act) but nothing had prepared her for this.

_Frankie! **Frankie!**_

_Wilt, what's the matter – Oh, **Oh my god!**_

_She needs our help!_

Where did it all go wrong?

It had all started so blissfully; she had managed to squeeze in a little break while waiting for the laundry to finish in the dryer, sipping lemon tea out of her favorite mug; a cup with the _Gorillaz_ band logo on it. She had been watching Mac and Bloo playing yet another one of their games on the front lawn from an upstairs window.

Bloo had somehow roped Mac into making an endearing little competition out of doing his share of the chores together. She didn't mind; having someone like Mac with him ensured that he didn't slack off or manipulate someone else into doing it for him and making it into a game often resulted in whatever was assigned being done much quicker. One day, it'd be whomever could scrub their half of the floor the fastest, another would be who could wash their stack of dishes first.

Today she had giggled so blithely as she stared down at them from out the window as they bickered over who had raked the bigger pile of leaves.

She had gotten up from the window to check on the laundry. She only had her eyes off them for a minute.

In hindsight she _wishes_ she could have assigned them something else.

"The boys finally fell asleep."

She snaps back into reality from her train of thought and turns to find Wilt in the doorway of the infirmary. He looks exhausted; if she had a mirror Frankie might have discovered her fatigue matching his own. She catches a quick glance at the clock next to the door. It's 2:30 in the morning. It's strange how time flies during nights like this.

"Thank goodness," she sighs, releasing a tension she didn't even know she was holding, "So much for their weekend sleepover. Those two went through a lot today."

"So have all of us," Wilt reminds her. He saunters into the room and sits next to Frankie upon one of the extra beds. He sags his shoulders and sighs. "…I'm sorry."

"Don't blame yourself for this," Frankie exclaimed incredulously, "You have _nothing_ to be sorry for."

"I am though!" Wilt implored, his one hand gripped so tightly the knuckles were turning white, "I was right there, sweeping the porch!"

She'd forgotten that was one of Wilt's chores today. Her bones ached with regret.

"I should have stopped them," Wilt continued, "It all happened so fast, and they just… Mac and Bloo shouldn't have seen that."

"It's still not your fault," Frankie argued, "There wasn't any way anyone could have known… what was in that garbage bag. Besides, I'm sure we can talk to the boys about it in the morning and make sure they're okay."

Wilt sighs. "You're right," he says. His good eye trailed towards the bed in front of them. "How is she?"

Frankie turns to face the figure laying in the bed in front of them. "Same as before, I suppose," she mutters, "But that really isn't saying much."

It was bizarre to think that wrapped in layers of gauze and bandages, underneath all the blood and hair and broken porcelain, was an Imaginary Friend.

It was hard to say if her condition would improve or worsen; all Wilt and Frankie could do was watch and wait and listen to the heart monitor that hung over the Imaginary Friend's bed give its frail, but steady beat.

Proof that the doll that lay before them was alive. Proof that she wasn't some object to be thrown away like garbage.

**_Beep. Beep. Beep._**

It was going to be a long night.


	2. Part Two

Back and forth. Back and forth.

The rocking chair's creaks filled the room with a heavy tension.

Madame Foster had many unspoken ways to tell him that she was upset, Mr. Herriman thought. All the years they've spent together gave him the near uncanny ability to read even the most subtle of emotions from her.

There goes a missed stitch again. That's one of her tells; Madame Foster was a lot less focused in her knitting whenever something upsetting was on her mind. The jagged, uneven pattern in the fabric told him that her mind was buzzing with countless thoughts. It's only after she misses another stitch that she grows frustrated with her failed project and tosses the fabric, needles and all, into her lap.

"Confound it," she mutters, "Confound it all."

Considering the situation, he's inclined to agree.

"Madame," he calls, knocking on the door frame. Madame Foster turns her eyes from her pile of yarn towards him.

"You're back," she replies, allowing a tense pause to follow, "How is the girl?"

"Stable," Mr. Herriman replies, adjusting his monocle, "As stable as her condition allows, I suppose. I also sent Miss Frances to bed, as you requested. Master Wilt is watching her now."

"Good," Madame Foster sighs, "It's been a day and a half, she needs the sleep." She taps a finger against the armrest of her chair. "And the boys?"

"Master Mac left to go home just a few minutes ago. Those two have been awfully quiet this weekend. I shall keep an eye on Master Blooregard for the time being, just in case."

"Mac and Bloo are so young," Madame Foster laments, "I'd hoped those two would never see the ugly side of our job."

Mr. Herriman doesn't say anything at that, as he can't help but think of all the other Imaginaries that have come though their doors in a similar condition as their latest guest, and the ones that never woke up from it. He makes a note in the back of his mind to have a chat with Master Wilt. He could only guess as to the long dormant and painful memories this incident has brought back to him.

"If it comforts you some, Madame," he says instead, "I was able to acquire the surveillance tape recording of the incident. Its contents very much line up with what Masters Blooregard and Mac have told us. I'm certain the authorities will find whomever is responsible for this accordingly."

Madame Foster's face falls. She closes her eyes and sighs.

"What good would it do?" she whispers.

Mr. Herriman's eyes snap open wide. "Pardon, Madame?"

"Be honest with me, Mr. Herriman," she says, louder now, "What good would it do? Is there a point to it all when we both darn well know the police will hardly to a thing about it?!"

Mr. Herriman dares not say anything to argue against her, because deep down, no matter how much he'd hate to admit it aloud, he knew she was right.

"If that girl were a _dog_, someone would have been arrested by now," She continued, fuming, "But when it comes to Imaginary Friends, we'd be lucky to get a foot in the door! They're more than glad to arrest an Imaginary Friend when they break the law, but when they're the victims of a crime, it's '_we can't help you!'_"

The silence that follows is deafening. Madame Foster lets her head fall into one her hands, shaking it.

"Sometimes I wonder if what I do actually helps anyone."

Oh. _Oh no, she's crying, isn't she?_

"_Alice,"_ Mr. Herriman sighs, "Alice, please don't cry."

He hops across the room and scoops Madame Foster up into his arms; if he had anything positive to say about his creator's advancing age, it would be that it made her small again. If it weren't for the silver hair and the aged wrinkles on her face, it would be like she was a little girl all over again.

Mr. Herriman lets himself fall into the rocking chair, letting the curved feet ease them both into a calm, rocking motion.

"Now, now, Madame," he coos, procuring a handkerchief to wipe away Madame Foster's tears, "That's hardly any way to think. You mean to tell me that after all these years; the awards, the campaigns, the laws you've helped change, the countless adoptions, and you think that you haven't done anything to help Imaginary Friends? I thought that by this point you would have known better."

Madame Foster sighs and lays her head against his chest. "I'm sorry, it's just…frustrating. Frustrating to know that despite everything we've done, there's next to nothing we can do to help that girl now," She pauses. "All we can do is hope she pulls through."

"Perhaps," Mr. Herriman adds, "I shall call the police department again in the morning, and make sure they're on top of this investigation. Will that make you feel better?"

Madame Foster is quiet for a bit. She wraps her arms around her oldest friend. "A little," she finally smirks.

Mr. Herriman would later take a minute to ask Master Wilt to take a break from watching their patient to head downstairs and order pizza for the house. While he didn't particularly enjoy the greasy food, he acknowledged that the residents of Foster's needed a respite from being stretched so thin for the past couple of days. If that meant pizza for dinner, so be it.

However, that would come later. For now, all Madame Foster and Mr. Herriman needed was each other, and the little quiet corner of the house they found themselves in, silent save for the creaking of the chair they rocked in.

Back and forth…Back and forth…


	3. Part Three

"I'm sorry, but what are you doing here?"

Blooregard Q. Kazoo jumps back from the infirmary door that was kept shut precisely to keep residents like him from prying their eyes where they shouldn't. Hiding something behind his back, he turns to face Wilt, who gives him a less than impressed look, and gives a nervous, almost sheepish grin in return.

"W-What do you mean?" Bloo stammers, lying through his teeth, "I-I wasn't doing anything, honest!"

"Yeah, and I'm the Queen of England."

Sensing that his jig was more than up, Bloo sighs and slowly brings out what looked like a folded piece of paper from behind his back.

"Here," he mutters, holding it out in front of him, "So don't say I was up to no good."

Taking the piece of craft paper from Bloo, the first thing that sticks out to Wilt is the words _GET WELL SOON_ written in bright, colorful letters that he instantly recognizes as Bloo's handwriting. Opening the card, he finds a message: _I hope that once you're better we can all be friends. From Mac and Bloo._ It's Mac's handwriting on the inside, and underneath that are colorful caricatures of Mac, Bloo and the doll like Imaginary Friend holding hands and giving big, happy smiles.

There was no way Wilt could stay mad at that.

"So that's what you and Mac were up to over the weekend," he muses.

"It was his idea," Bloo admits, a pink hue growing on his azure face, "He said that it'll help make us 'feel better' about it or something. I _know _it's supposed to be the thought that counts or whatever, but I thought it was kind of pointless at first, considering she probably isn't even awake to read it and…"

He trails off, his eyes drifting to the floor, struggling to find the right words in a storm of thoughts.

"…and those bandages over her eyes don't help that much either," he finally mutters.

Wilt's chest filled with regret. As much as he'd want to deny it, Bloo was practically one of the primary witnesses to what was very quickly being called by the residents of Foster's as "The Incident." Only him and a tiny handful of others knew just how bad the injuries were. It was bothering Bloo much more than the blue blob was willing to admit, and Wilt couldn't help but blame himself.

"Whoa, hey," Wilt says, crouching down to better meet Bloo's eye level, "I know I told you and Mac this already, but you can always talk to me if you need it. And even if it looks like I'm too busy at the infirmary, I'm sure Frankie and Madame Foster will be willing to listen. Heck, you could even talk to ol' fuzzbutt Herriman if you're up for it."

"Ugh, no thanks," Bloo gags at the mention of the latter, but pauses for a moment. "…But I'll think about it."

Wilt looks at the card again. "This was really sweet of you and Mac to make this. Why did you wait so long to give this to her?"

"The infirmary was off limits, remember?" Bloo replies, "Well, that and I'd kind of been putting it off for the past couple of days. I figured I do it now before Mac finds out and gets mad at me. Now that you're here, you can give it to her."

"Tell you what," Wilt says, standing up and handing the card back to Bloo, "As long as you keep quiet and _don't touch anything, _you can give it to her yourself."

Bloo does a double take. "Really?"

"Yeah," Wilt replies, grabbing ahold of the doorknob and opening the door, "Come on in."

Holding his card to his chest, Bloo slowly and nervously glides into the room and towards the Imaginary Friend in the bed, who hadn't moved since she was placed there days ago. Wilt follows suit and sits on the bed adjacent hers.

"Do you think she can hear us, Wilt?" Bloo whispers.

"It's worth a try to say something nice," Wilt responds, "Go ahead, since you went through all this trouble to get here."

Bloo steps up next to the bed and just watches her lay there for a minute. The silence intimidates him.

"Um…hi," Bloo finally begins, "My best friend Mac and I made you a card. I hope you like it." He fidgets a little before putting the card on the nightstand next to her bed. "I'll just put this…here, okay?"

Bloo steps away from the bed and goes to tell Wilt he was ready to leave before being startled by a sharp noise. Both Imaginary Friends turn to face the bed.

The heart monitor gives off another alarm, signifying that the heart rate of its patient was rising higher than normal. Her breathing quickens, and she begins to move her head.

_Oh God, she was waking up._

Slowly, slowly, her arms begin to rise up from her sides and eventually touches the bandages on her eyes.

One breath. Two.

And then she starts to scream.

Wilt and Bloo rush back to the bed and Bloo tries to touch her shoulder to calm her down.

"Hey, hey!" he whispers, "It's okay!"

She violently swats away his hands. "Don't touch me, DON'T TOUCH ME!" She shrieks.

Bloo recoils and clings to Wilt's leg, terrified. "W-What are we gonna do, Wilt?"

She attempts to claw at the bandages with her cracked hands, breathing erratically. Wilt uses his one hand to grab them as gently as he could. He didn't want to break her more than she already was.

_"_What did you do to me? Why can't I see?" she sobs, defeated, "_What happened to my eyes?"_

Wilt's grip falters.

**_What did you people do to my arm?_**

Breathe in. Breathe out. It's in the past now.

Wilt needs to think fast before things get worse. He looks down to Bloo.

"Go get Frankie."

Bloo doesn't need to be told twice. He dashes out the room without a word.

Wilt turns back to face the Imaginary doll and tries his best to comfort her despite his growing panic.

"I'm sorry, but you need to calm down, okay?" Wilt whispers, "I don't want you to get hurt more than you already are."

"You're just one of HIS pals, aren't you?" She accuses, thrashing around in Wilt's grip, "You just want to hurt me some more for your sick kicks! You've already _blinded _me!"

"Whoever did this to you is long gone, okay?" Wilt soothes, "I promise this is a safe place."

"Don't lie to me," she cries, "Stop lying to me!" She's shaking uncontrollably now. It seemed like nothing would be able to calm her down.

"Wilt!" a new voice calls, "What happened?"

Thank goodness, Frankie's finally here. She stops in her tracks and stares at them both, gears turning in her head.

"I'll take this from here, Wilt," Frankie says, ushering him out of the infirmary and into the hall, "Why don't you take five while I try to calm her down?"

Before Wilt can protest, he door shuts behind him with a click. He leans on the wall and tries to center himself from the reeling experience he just had.

Breathe in. Breathe out. _Don't have a panic attack –_

"Wilt?"

Startled, he looks down to find Bloo staring up at him concerningly. He'd been watching and waiting out in the hall, hadn't he?

"Wilt," Bloo repeats, grabbing hold of one of his fingers with a stubby hand, "Is she gonna be okay?"

Wilt tries to listen through the door, hearing Frankie's voice amid agonizing sobs.

"We're still figuring that out," he finally answers.

"Are _you _gonna be okay?"

"Sure!" Wilt blurts out a little faster than he'd like to admit, already feeling the panic kicking in, "I'm fine!"

"But –"

"It's fine, I mean it," he lies, "I just need a minute or two, okay?"

Bloo finally listens and begins to reluctantly trudge down to the end of the hall. He looks back, lingers a bit, then turns and disappears around the corner.

Alone in the hallway, Wilt's knees buckle with a sigh, and he lets himself slide down the wall and sits himself on the floor. He forces his eye shut as he struggles to keep his breath steady, trying to ignore his rapidly beating heart, trying to ignore the sobs that drift out into the hall from the closed door next to him. He absentmindedly reaches for the stump that used to be his left arm, tracing his thumb over –

**_I know it was broken, but I didn't think it was that bad…_**

The scar etched there.

Breathe in. Breathe out. It'll be over soon.


End file.
